A Love in the Dark

My name is Claire Cruise.
For as long as I can remember, the world has been nothing but darkness.
My mother died when I was a little baby, and my father had a car accident when I was five.
At home, it's just my brother Tommy Cruise and me.
Tommy is eight years older than I am. Last year, he broke his leg at a construction site, and since then, he can only walk with a cane.
Every morning, I run my hand along the edge of the bed and carefully get out.
Feeling my way to the kitchen, I pour last night's leftover porridge into the pot, then press the back of my hand against the bottom to gauge the heat.
Tommy always wakes late.
His leg aches often, and when the pain strikes, he hums softly.
I sit by his bedside, gently rubbing his knee.
Tommy would sigh, saying it would be wonderful if I could see.
Each time, I'd shake my head, saying it didn't matter.
I could feel where the bowl was placed.
I could hear Tommy's footsteps.
And I could still smell if the pagoda tree blossoms had bloomed outside.
One day in May, Tommy came home particularly late.
He carried a strange scent, like disinfectant mingled with dust.
He held my shoulders gently and guided my hand onto something.
My fingertips touched cold fabric and stiff joints.
"Claire." Tommy's voice was a little hoarse.
"This is Nicolas. From now on, he'll keep you company."
I followed the fabric downward and found a pair of cold hands, fingers slender, nails neatly trimmed.
"Is he... a doll?" I whispered.
Tommy gave a soft hum and said this was a special doll, one who could talk with me.
I leaned close to Nicolas's face, sensing the warmth of his breath—so light, like a feather brushing my cheek.
That night, I sat by the bed and told Nicolas about my day.
I said I burnt the porridge that morning, and in the afternoon I accidentally touched the clothesline, dropping Tommy's shirt onto the floor.
Nicolas remained silent.
I thought he was truly just a doll until my hand brushed his throat and felt a small, hard bump.
I instinctively pressed it.
A clear, gentle voice sounded—soft, yet it landed right at the tip of my heart.
"I love you."
I yanked my hand back suddenly, my face flushing all at once.
Tommy stepped in from outside, his footsteps light and quiet.
"He only ever says this one sentence." Tommy's voice was low and quiet.
"From now on, whenever you want to speak, just press the button."
From that day on, Nicolas sat quietly on the chair beside my bed. Every morning, I would dust him off, gently wiping his clothes with a soft cloth and smoothing his hair.
I would tell him about the weather, about the lady downstairs who sold steamed buns giving me an extra one today, and about Tommy's leg no longer hurting, how he could take a few steps leaning on his cane.
Every time I finished speaking, I would press the button on his throat and listen to the words, "I love you."
Sometimes, I would wonder.
What Nicolas used to be like.
Were his eyes bright? I wonder if he can smile.
I gently stroke his eyebrows, his eyes, and the corners of his mouth, imagining how he would smile.
Once, when Tommy wasn't home, heavy rain poured outside and thunder crashed loudly.
I was scared, curled up under the blanket, my hand reaching out instinctively to touch Nicolas's hand.
I pressed the button on his throat.
"I love you."
His voice was clear through the rain; I felt a little less afraid.
I pressed my face to his sleeve, catching his faint scent—like sun-dried blankets, warm and comforting.
I began to depend on this silent doll.
At mealtime, I would pull my chair beside him and tell him that today's food was a little salty.
Before going to sleep at night, I would press the button and close my eyes, listening to the words "I love you."
It was as if, in this way, my dreams would no longer be engulfed in darkness.

It was a particularly hot afternoon in July.
I was wiping Nicolas's hands.
Suddenly, I heard many footsteps downstairs—chaotic and loud.
Someone was shouting, "Open the door!"
Tommy was inside the bedroom, wiping his cane. Hearing the noise, he stood up instantly. The cane clattered to the ground.
I could feel how panicked he was.
He rushed over and grabbed my hand—it was cold.
"Claire." His voice trembled.
"Stay inside. Don't come out." Before I could say a word, the door was slammed open, and footsteps poured in.
Someone shouted, "Don't move!" I was so frightened I shrank close to Nicolas, clutching his clothes tightly.
"Police!" A clear, loud voice called out.
"Someone reported illegal detention here."
I froze.
Illegal detention?
Who is involved?
I touched Nicolas's hand; it seemed to tremble.
Suddenly, someone grabbed Nicolas's arm, and Nicolas let out a muffled groan, clearly in pain.
"Don't touch him!" I shouted. "He's my doll!"
That loud voice came closer, footsteps stopping right in front of me.
"Honey." His voice softened slightly. "He's not a doll. He's a person."
My mind buzzed suddenly.
A person?
Nicolas is a person?
I reached out to touch Nicolas's face, feeling the wetness at the corner of his eye—tears.
"His name is Nicolas Rock." The voice went on. "He's a student from the broadcasting department. Your brother has kept him here for three months."
I can't believe it. How could Tommy do such a thing?
I turned my head and reached out toward Tommy.
I touched his arm; it was trembling.
"Tommy..." My voice wavered. "Is that true?"
Tommy said nothing, only breathing heavily. Someone came and took him away.
As Tommy left, he gently stroked my head.
"Claire." His voice was hoarse. "I'm sorry."
Then the footsteps faded into the distance.
The room fell silent.
Only Nicolas and I were left.
And that police officer, too.
"His vocal cords..."
The police sighed. "Your brother Tommy hurt him. He can't speak now."
"His joints were also fixed. He still can't move them properly."
I touched Nicolas's wrist and felt something hard inside—it was the support fixing his joint.
Tears fell from my eyes, landing softly on Nicolas's hand.
"I'm sorry." I choked on my words. "I didn't know..."
Nicolas said nothing; he slowly raised his hand and gently touched my face with his fingertips.
So light, it felt like a quiet comfort.
Later, the police took Nicolas away to the hospital for treatment.
I held his hand tightly, unwilling to let go.
Nicolas watched as I guided my other hand to the button at his throat.
I paused for a moment, then pressed it.
"I love you."
The sound was soft, yet like a thread connecting him and me.
Nicolas gently touched me, as if saying, "Wait for me."
I nodded, sensing him being taken away by the police.
Sunlight poured in after he left, and for the first time, I felt the sunlight had color.

After Tommy was taken away, I was sent to a welfare institution.
There were many children there, most of them like me, alone without families.
The staff at the welfare institution are kind; they help me comb my hair and tell me stories.
But some children don't like me. Because I can't see, they deliberately knock my bowl off the table and trip me while I'm walking.
Once, I reached out to a pot of cacti by the window, wanting to feel what the thorns were like.
A boy rushed over and pressed the cactus into my hand; the thorns pierced my skin, and it hurt terribly.
Tears streamed down my face.
But the boy just laughed and ran away.
I crouched on the ground, clutching my hand tightly, suddenly thinking of Nicolas, thinking of the button on his throat, thinking of that phrase: "I love you."
It feels like the pain has eased.
I slowly stood up, groping until I found the faucet, then rinsed my hands with cold water.
Day by day, time slipped by.
Every day, I sat by the window, listening to the sounds outside, yearning for news of Nicolas.
Ms. Lincoln is a worker in here, she said Nicolas had surgery at the hospital; the joint brace was removed, his vocal cords were recovering, and he could speak a few simple words.
Hearing this, my heart felt as if a flower had bloomed.
One day in October, Ms. Lincoln told me someone had come to pick me up.
I followed her to the door. I touched a familiar pair of hands, which are so warm. It was Nicolas.
"Claire." His voice was still a bit hoarse, but very clear. "I've come to get you."
I threw myself into his arms, tears falling onto his clothes.
"Nicolas... I miss you so much."
Nicolas gently patted my back. "I miss you too."
Nicolas took me away from the welfare institution.
We lived in a shantytown, in a tiny room with drafty walls. When it rained, water dripped from the roof, and Nicolas placed a bucket underneath.
The "drip, drip, drip" sounded like a soft little melody.
Nicolas couldn't do heavy work; his vocal cords hadn't fully healed, and he had to keep his voice low.
To earn money, he took a job helping institutions test their new medicines.
Every time he went to test medicine, he would prepare meals for me in advance and keep them warm in a thermos.
"Claire." Before leaving, he would stroke my head. "Stay well at home and wait for me. I'll be back soon."
I would nod and sit by the door, waiting for him.
Nicolas always seemed to be in poor shape when he returned from the job.
Sometimes he would cough, and I would pour him a glass of warm water, pressing the back of my hand against his forehead to check if he had a fever.
"It's okay." Nicolas would always smile and say, "It'll get better in a couple of days."
Once, when Nicolas returned, he nearly fainted at the door.
I heard the noise and rushed over to steady him. His body felt burning hot.
"Nicolas!" I cried, panic rising. "Let's go to the hospital!"
Nicolas shook his head. "No need."
He leaned against me. "Just need some rest."
That night, I sat by his bedside, gently wiping his face and hands.
He slept deeply, his brows knitted as if caught in a nightmare.
I softly pressed the button at his throat.
"I love you." The sound was faint.
I whispered, "Nicolas, don't keep testing those experimental drugs. Let's find another way to earn money together."
Nicolas seemed to have heard.
Her brows slowly unfurled.

In winter, I realized something was wrong with me.
I felt constantly nauseous, vomiting every morning.
Nicolas was deeply worried and took me to the hospital.
The doctor said I was pregnant.
I was stunned for a long while, my hand instinctively moving to my belly, where a baby was growing.
Nicolas sat beside me, his hand gently resting on mine.
"Claire." His voice was tender. "We're going to have a baby."
I could feel his smile, and I smiled too, tears slipping down my cheeks.
During those days, Nicolas was especially happy. He would buy me my favorite apples and read me stories.
Although he still wasn't very fluent in speaking, he read with great care.
He would gently touch my belly and whisper softly.
"Baby, be nice to your mom. Don't make your mom uncomfortable."
I leaned against him, listening to his voice and the faint movements inside my belly, feeling quietly happy.
But that happiness didn't last long. We didn't have enough money. The money Nicolas earned by testing medicine was barely enough for the two of us to live. Raising a baby was simply impossible.
Nicolas started taking on more work—carrying bricks at the construction site by day, washing dishes in a restaurant by night. He'd come home late every day, his clothes heavy with sweat, his hands thick with calluses.
I looked at his hands, my heart aching with tenderness.
"Nicolas." One night, I reached out and touched his hand, saying, "Let's... abort this baby."
Nicolas froze, his hand suddenly closing tightly around mine.
"Claire." There was a sharp urgency in his voice.
"Why? We can figure something out. I can earn more money."
I shook my head, tears spilling down my cheeks.
"I don't want you to be so exhausted. I don't want the baby to come into this world just to suffer alongside us."
Nicolas said nothing, only held me close.
I could feel his tears fall onto my hair.
Later, I secretly found out about a small clinic.
I didn't tell Nicolas.
That morning, I told Nicolas I was going to find Ms. Lincoln to deliver something.
Nicolas nodded and packed me an apple.
"Come back early; I'll make your favorite noodles."
I softly responded.
Then, I turned and left the house.
The clinic was small and dim inside.
The doctor was a middle-aged woman, with a cold voice.
The procedure was painful; I clenched my teeth and stayed silent.
I was thinking about Nicolas.
Thinking about the noodles he made.
Thinking about that phrase, "I love you."
It felt like the pain softened a little.
It was already dark when I returned.
Nicolas was standing at the door, waiting for me.
Seeing me come back, he hurried over.
"Claire." He touched my face.
"Why are you only just back? Why does your face look so pale?"
I didn't say a word, leaning into his embrace.
Tears suddenly fell.
Nicolas seemed to understand everything. He didn't ask, just held me tightly.
That night, we didn't say a word.
Nicolas cooked porridge for me and fed me.
I looked at him. His eyes were full of aching tenderness.
"Claire." He whispered softly, "From now on, we will never part again."
I nodded, burying my face in his embrace.
That night, the pain and the sorrow in my heart seemed to make me grow up all at once.
I know the road ahead will be difficult, but as long as Nicolas is with me, I am not afraid.

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